The exhaust burned brightly, white
flames licking against the patio barbecue andMrs. Dalton's seven-foot-high wooden
fence. With a shuddering roar the projectile, tallerthan a tenement and wider than two
retired astronauts, lifted slowly and mightily. Then, itwas up and away, arcing into the soft
night sky of Brooklyn to become just anotherpinprick of light. The smell of charred
pine tar from the fence hung in the spring air.Rhododendron leaves along the perimeter
of the yard continued to burn and curl, thenwinked out like a crowd departing.

Bob moved away from the screen door
and pushed his protective Ray-Bans up onto hisbright-blond hair. I wondered briefly
how some people could get them to stay like that.

"You did it, Chuck. The Arrow has launched.
Way to go."

I moved to the kitchen table, scraped
a chair along the maroon linoleum and satlumpishly. "Yup." I grinned tiredly,
and then let it fade, as if a thought that in fact hadbeen bothering me for weeks had just
occurred to me. "I dunno, though, I'm thinking theneighbors are going to complain one
of these days. Mrs. Dalton shot me a dirty look at KeyFoods today."

Bob sat down, and threw his arms wide.
"Well, where else are you gonna do it? Afterall, this is private enterprise —
entrepreneurialism — the Future of Space, and junk likethat. That's what you keep telling
me."

"I guess you're right," I said, giving
a smile to show that, indeed, I was pleased. So far,anyway.

"'Nother beer?" Bob got up and opened
the door of the heavy, old Frigidaire, which thelandlord long ago had touched up with
off-white house paint. He leaned in and rootedaround; the rustle of shrunken lettuce
heads in plastic wrap mingled with the clinking ofbottles.

"Not for me, thanks," I said, "I want
to see where we are." I picked up the clipboard."The Arrow should pierce the Van Allen
Belt in about 30 minutes, dispatch the bird, andthen return for a neat, one-point
landing. I guess everything's covered." I began idlytapping my pen on the schedule.

Bob kicked the fridge shut and sat
down. "So, tell me again, what's the point of puttingup a fake satellite?" With concentration,
he opened the bottle and took a large swallow.

I let exaggerated shock show on my
face. "I can't believe you're asking me that." Boblooked at me blankly. "First off,
it's not 'fake,' and secondly, it is one of two very seriousscientific experiments." Bob rolled
his eyes heavenward, which I ignored.

"Now," I continued, "deploying the
test satellite is a practice run, so that once the U.S.space program becomes truly privatized
my fledgling company will be well placed to getmany contracts. As to the secondary
aspect of this mission, which I've told you aboutcountless times, it involves the effects
of weightlessness and cosmic rays on mildew — avery simple life form for a very basic
experiment. Any changes in the sample, attached toa piece of thick polyethylene — a
shower curtain, in fact — will be beamed back to me via anarrow but unused sector of the amplitude
modulation band, which you know as AM radio."I gave Bob a prim, satisfied smile.
"That, of course, is the simplified explanation."

"Still doesn't sound very practical,
even when you use big words," Bob said, raising hisbeer bottle in a smug, precise way.

I ignored the implied smirk. "Well,
I had something set up with a counterfeit-perfumemaker from Ozone Park. We wanted to
see how the stuff would react in a spaceenvironment, with the idea we could
sell liters of official perfume to NASA for all thosewomen who'll one day be living in
space stations and starships for long, unglamorousperiods. But it was hard to find a
skin sample in time for this space shot, so the deal fellapart."

I paused, starting again to worry about
how I would get these launches to pay forthemselves. I looked up at Bob; he
certainly hadn't been exploding with ideas. "Anyway, Ican't believe you asked me that,"
I snapped.

"Not for me, I'm taking a quick nap,"
I said, standing and stretching.

"Okay, ace," Bob said airily. He retrieved
a beer and sat down, causing the Ray-Bans toflop back onto his nose.

"Keep an eye on things. I'll see you
in an hour," I said.

"See ya later," he agreed.

I left Bob sitting at the table, among
the cannibalized toasters, mixers, and otherappliance-whatnots that had given
their lives so that The Arrow could fly.

Something woke me suddenly. Swinging
my legs off the side of the bed, I grabbedfor the alarm clock, squinting dazedly.
Dimly, I could see it was 4:30 a.m., but I couldn'tgrasp what that meant. My face felt
puffy and lined, slightly damp on one side where it hadfaced the pillow. My ear felt plugged
up. But there was something more bothering me —what was it?

Then it struck me: The rocket!

I stood up and flipped on the bedroom
light. We had launched at 9 p.m. That wasseven-and-a-half hours for a one-hour
flight. What had happened? Had the autopilotreturned The Arrow in one piece?

Hope and trepidation roiled within
me as I stumbled out of the bedroom and down thehall. My shadow loomed ahead of me
like Frankenstein's Monster. In the kitchen, emptybeer bottles, worn plaid shirts, and
greasy electric-motor parts were still strewn about,but Bob was gone. I hurried to the
back door and peered out.

No rocket! And no Bob.

Wait — had Bob mistakenly been on the
rocket? No, I remembered, he had been in thekitchen, drinking heavily and quibbling.

"Where are they? They should be here,"
I said to no one. A cricket, perhaps frombehind the fridge, chirped twice amid
the stillness. The 40-watt bulb continued to burnunevenly above. I knew my mouth was
hanging open, but I did nothing about it.

"The radio!" I dashed into the living
room, tripping over a wrinkle in the threadbaregreen carpet. Reaching back along
the wall, my fingers found the light switch and flicked itup. Nothing happened.

"No rocket, no Bob, and no living-room
lights," I muttered. My hands fumbled along thecoffee table, touching sticky spots
from long-gone TV dinners, until they recognized therectangular shape of the radio that
had come free with a subscription to "PopularMechanix."

I swept the kitchen table clear with
the edge of the clipboard. Sitting down, I turned onthe radio and began searching through
the staticky wavelengths for any communication, anysign, any thing from the prodigal
projectile.

The all-news radio station blared forth
suddenly. "...crashed at Vandenberg Air Forcebase in a fiery disaster. Tight-lipped
Air Force officials would only say they have no ideawhere the rocket came from. Meanwhile,
a NASA spokesman said a preliminary inspectionof the parts indicate it isn't Russian,
but more likely a crude, homemade device. Moredetails aren't available yet. Weather
and traffic updates after this message..."

I switched it off hurriedly, guiltily.
"Vandenberg? How did it get to California?"

* * *

The shades were all drawn. My
repeated phone calls had only reached Bob'sanswering machine. Maybe he had heard
the news. Apparently, I was in this alone. Wouldthey trace the rocket to me? I knew
the neighbors would be more than happy to turn mein; it's a wonder they had never called
the police, and here was their golden opportunity.

Then another thought hit: Had anyone
been killed?

Ohmygod.

Then I heard a voice, muffled but loud,
coming from the front yard. With one fingercrooked around the window shade I
peeked out the front window.

My landlord? What was he doing here
at six in the morning? What was he saying?Was he drunk?

Footsteps crunched down the driveway.
A car door thunked shut and an engine noiseroared away.

Oddly enough, I was relieved. I had
really wanted to move closer to town, anyway. Andthis was a good reason. Good motivation.
Rents on the East Side are comparable, and I couldeven walk to work. Lots more going
on, too. Night life, bars, movies — and maybe I wouldmeet more girls, or at least one.

Then my rhapsodic line of thinking
nose-dived again: What if someone had been killed?Would they link it to me? Was I in
big trouble? And where the hell was Bob?

But no, I decided to put it out of
my mind. With quick resolve, I began loading my fewworthwhile possessions into my Hyundai
to take a fast, perhaps permanent, vacation backhome.

As I packed, I also decided I would
call White Goods Repair later and tell my boss I hadbeen called back to Dayton on emergency
family business. That should work.

* * *

I hurtled down an endless runway,
amid the steady whine of tires chewing up theconcrete miles and the choppy roar
of the half-open window, trying to drive faster than Icould think. I kept the radio off.
Hearing even the smallest number of casualties wouldhave sent me over the edge, literally,
the car snapping through the guardrail like it wastinsel. Airborne, to land . . . where?

* * *

It was almost dinner time by
the time I swung the cheap, foreign-made car ontomy parents driveway, and I realized
I didn't have a cover story. What if they knew?Would they turn me in? I resolved
to wing it.

Daisy began yipping as I walked into
the living room; then she recognized me, andlaunched herself toward me, tail spinning
like a propeller. Dad and Sis were sitting on thesofa, drinking glasses of lemonade
and reading big picture books about dinosaurs andgeography.

They looked up, surprised.

"Chuck, what brings you home — besides
your car?" Dad said.

I paused, and then blurted it out.
"I had to get away. That rocket that crashed inCalifornia; it was mine."

Over dinner, Mom, Dad, Sis, and
I managed to laugh off the whole episode. "Youshould have seen me trying to contact
the rocket over the AM radio, flipping the dial everywhich way. Oh, you would have died,"
I said with a chuckle. Tremulous relaxationpervaded me, and a sound night's sleep
was beginning to look possible.

The room eased into silence. Daisy's
head was on my lap, her teary, brown eyes lookingup patiently.

I cleared my throat, and ventured:
"Things had been going so well, even flawlessly. ButI guess that's life: Suddenly, no
dream, and no best friend. I know where the rocket is now— what's left of it, anyway — but
I never did find Bob."

"Well, son. At least you tried. We
may never know what happened to Bob, but I guessthis puts the kibosh on any further
plans to conquer space on your own." He admonishedme with one sadly-but-lovingly raised
eyebrow.

I smiled back, but shook my head slowly.
"No can do, Dad. I'm going for a Moon shotnext." 